The Phoenix Effect
by Livyathan
Summary: They were built in pairs after all, and humanity's future depended on him finding her.
1. Prologue: Slumbering Memories

_Prologue_  
_—o—_

It seemed that he had been absent far longer that he had first thought. A great number of things had changed since his last "re-birth"; indeed, it seemed everything had changed. It had been nearly three hundred years since he had last walked this familiar path, now laden with fall's colorful arrangements of browns and oranges. He paused briefly in his hike towards the old mansion on the horizon, and allowed his lungs to be filled with fresh country air, a taste that he had greatly missed. His torn, ratty scarf danced eagerly in the chilled wind, the leaves finding solace in their cotton partner. Thick strands of honey hair hung before bright green eyes, the wind brushing against his cheek like the sweetest, softest kiss. A final country breath filled his chest to spur the young man on the final leg of a rather long and arduous journey.

He had refused to get his hopes up, though he knew that she was just like him. They were built in pairs after all, and he only hoped that she had experienced another "re-birth" as well. But whether or not she remembered him was another issue all together. In most cases, each re-birth was a different life, a "clean slate", in which no memories of any previous lives remain, yet all are locked away within one's heart until Destiny sees fit to reveal the true purpose of one's earthly existence. He was also vaguely aware that not everyone experienced these "re-births". What had made those people that did so different, so special? He supposed he would uncover the truth soon enough.

The Mansion before him had not changed since his last visit. Though the gardens had grown wild and dominant, thick vines of ivy now weaved patterns along the stone structure of the manor's face. The second floor balcony above the grand entry way still stood proud, though several banisters were missing. The gargoyles on the roof remained ever vigilant in seeking out those who did not belong on the hallowed ground which he now disturbed. The building's once majestic ramparts had lost some of their gleam, but his eyes could still see the beauty hidden underneath, all the grandeur of nearly three hundred years. A fierce wind blew through the old complex as he climbed the creaking front steps. Instinctively, he pulled his heavy jacket closer. The spirits would not be happy about being disturbed. The once gilded door before him had long been robbed of its sparkling face, and now clung with fading strength to rusted, crumbling hinges. The weakest push of his gloved hand allowed him entrance to the place where he had spent most of his childhood so very long ago.

Inside, the grand foyer remained intact and clung despairingly to an air of prestige that had long since past. Around him, large sections of the walls were barren, the wallpaper withering and peeling away like a flower in atrophy. Large pieces of the elaborate marble floor were cracked and missing. He could still remember when brilliant lights from the chandelier above cast a marvelous glow on the green and milky veins within the smooth stone. The very same chandelier now rested solemnly, forgotten by time. Shattered and broken at his feet, its hand-crafted glass splayed out like water on the floor. Its frame had become crumpled and grotesque; a rusted orange coat now shone where sleek metal once smiled. Vaguely familiar portraits of landscapes and family members hung crookedly in cracked frames along the walls accompanied by various lights long deprived of oil and electricity. Dual grand staircases coiled like serpents upward to the balcony along the second floor, the very same place he had first seen her all those years ago. The elegant banister was broken and vacant in several places, as were parts of the steps. The large mahogany door nestled between the staircases would lead him to the grand ballroom.

To his right, the door to his father's private study still held strong, the lettering on the nameplate, _Dr. Rodger J. Barrett, PhD.; Historian_, barely identifiable from his position by the foyer entrance. The first door to his immediate left, he remembered, would take him into his mother's private parlor, and the second door would take him down a winding staircase to the empty kitchens, though he knew he would still find lingering smells of all his favorite dishes. Closing his eyes briefly, he took in a crippling breath of his past; the dust that had protected the manor for centuries now mixed with his slumbering memories.

He had come here for only one thing, and he had to find it quickly. He could feel the dormant spirits begin to stir, and he was not keen on answering to them now. The watch on his wrist had begun slowing, and the fortnight date had almost come. Pushing forward, the young man climbed one of the grand staircases carefully and quickly before he made a sharp right towards the grand manor's east wing; there was no other route to access his destination. This section of the building was far older than the rest, the wing being the only remaining section of the original structure to survive the house fire in 1756. The family had managed to rebuild larger and more grandiose than the last time; the project was completed in 1767. The last door on the left would lead him to the library, which boasted bookshelves that stretched both the first and second floors. A smaller staircase inside would lead him back down to the ground level. Inside the library, a natural smell of old leather, worn pages and dust still permeated the air. Vine-chocked windows allowed the last remains of the fading sunlight to guide him to the oldest bookshelf in the room, nestled behind his father's large, old desk. The rose window at the top of the far wall had long been broken out; pieces of its proud face now littered the ground beneath him. Within the bookcase's wooden walls, some of the most famous and important books regarded by man, slept. Trained eyes quickly searched the shelves, before he finally spotted the torn leather binding of the journal tucked away along the top shelf between da Vinci's notebooks and Jean-Jacques Rousseau's Emilé. Plucking it carefully from the shelf, he tenderly pealed back the pages until he spotted a short entry that spanned no more than half a page:

_14 August 1793_

_This will be my final entry. At dawn, I will hang for treason although I am an innocent man. I pray that through my unjust death, my honor will be restored and that recent slanderous remarks against my family will be set right._

He carefully closed the journal once again, finding no reason to read the short entry to its end. So he had hanged for another's crime. This much he could remember, but he felt ashamed in not knowing whether his family's honor had indeed been restored. Turning the journal to its face, there was only one more mystery to solve before leaving. Carefully dusting off centuries old dust, his eyes could barely make out the gold script on the cover against the quickly fading sun: The Journal of Jethro M. Barrett. Jethro. The identification used in his past life would again be called to arms in this one. Tucking the journal into his satchel he quickly turned and left the building, doubting if he would ever return again.

—O_—_

Jethro's once idle memories quickly began to awaken from their dormant state as he walked along the grounds surrounding the manor, tender fingers flipping through fragile parchment. Jethro's strange journey through multiple lives began in 1066, during the Battle of Hastings with an arrow through his chest. His next crucial entry, for there were others that served as an interlude, was dated 1455 and held detailed hand sketches of the fall of Constantinople, and violent slaughter by the Ottomans. In 1620 he remembered pledging allegiance to Germany during the Thirty Years' War. The Eighteenth Century held vivid, blackened memories of the French Revolution, and the image of his beloved Marie facing the guillotine shortly before he came into close acquaintance with the great Madame herself. The most recent entry was dated May 17, 1915 from the H.M.S. Lusitania. Shutting the journal carefully, he placed the small book inside his satchel. His mind was racing. It seemed both his re-births and deaths had occurred prior to or during some of Europe's most critical historical events. Perhaps Lady Death had more great adventures in store for him after all.

Currently, Jethro's thoughts had been washed in his memories of his beloved Marie. Any clues to her location, however, remained shrouded in black fog in Jethro's mind. Instead the images of a great, old castle in Scotland and of a withered old man hidden away in an abandoned monastery danced mockingly before his mind's eye.


	2. The Broken Road

I  
—O—  
The Broken Road

To say she did not know who she was would, frankly, be an understatement. Three months ago, she had awoken in a hospital with no memories. She could not even summon her own name from the fog that shrouded her mind. For all intensive purposes, she had become just another 'Jane Doe'. Her case had baffled the experts. As far as they could research, she had no medical records. Her birth record and social security number could not be traced through the national database. Her finger prints did not register to any name, any face.

To them, she simply did not exist.

She was forced to start over. No name. No family. No proof of formal education. The local social security office had provided her with the essentials, including a birthday, social security number, and fingerprint records. Through their best guesses, her officers had placed her around twenty-three, give or take a year. She chose 'Diane' as her first name. She thought it might have been close to her mother's name, whoever that was. The office outfitted her with a last name, 'L'Huthereaux'. They would try to pass her off as an emigrant to the country.

She had managed to find a vacancy in a nearby boarding house run by a kind old lady, Mrs. Dorothea Gotchick. At 78, Mrs. Gotchick's health was rapidly failing, and by now she had assumed a complexion similar to a fresh plum. Diane did not mind the woman, though did not appreciate Mrs. Gotchick taking pity on her because of her situation. The boarding house Mrs. Gotchick ran was as old and fragile looking as its owner. Many of the window shutters had fallen off, and the once lively red bricks had begun to fade. Several of the front steps were worn and cracked, and the front door looked as though it were pulled from a nearby colonial house; the knocker in the center was at least as old as Mrs. Gotchick was. Inside, the house resembled that of a house belonging to any elderly woman: knickknacks and old souvenirs lined the walls in the sitting room and dining rooms. An old grandfather clock ticked away in the foyer entrance; next to a coat rack and a row of shoes (Mrs. Gotchick did not like shoes in the rest of the house). Tacky wallpaper lined every room in the house, and stolen soaps were placed in small dishes in the three different bathrooms shared by residents. While most the other residents were local college students, the only constant besides the old woman was her equally aging son, Terrence, who had yet to wed and satisfy his mother's need for grandchildren. Often times, when she was around, Terrence would simply stare at her, as if he knew something about herself that she did not.

Despite not knowing if she really knew anything, Diane did know that she had always been a fairly independent person. As of late she was, for lack of better terminology, a "Jack of all Trades". Since she was unaware as to whether or not she had any forms of professional training, Mrs. Gotchick had pulled some strings and gotten her a job in the local bookstore and café. Elias Camden had been skeptical about hiring a Jane Doe, but reluctantly agreed if only to get Mrs. Gotchick out of his short hair.

Camden had started her out in the back room, unpacking shipments and sorting books onto various carts to be loaded onto shelves. She wore the simple uniform, a black collared polo with _**Camden's**_scrawled across the left chest and a name-tag pinned to the other. She had picked up on Camden's business system quickly, and had become good friends with Gregory's sister Alice. She ran the café area towards the back of the store. After several weeks, Camden had grown pleased with her back room efforts after she had quickly set up an efficient organizational system for the other staff members. Camden then placed her on the register, quickly teaching Diane how to make change and perform various operations.

She had been working at Camden's for almost six months when he walked through the front door looking for some information on Scottish castles and forgotten monasteries.

"Certainly," Diane had responded. "Are you looking for a certain location, sir?" Eager to finally help somebody officially, Diane first led him to the travel section. When he further expressed his interest in the historical aspect rather than traveling to the destination, Diane led him to the other side of the store. A few awkward minutes passed before his nibble fingers grasped at a rather old looking book.

"This one will do," He muttered not raising his eyes to meet her, despite the fact he was several inches taller than her. Somewhere in the back of her head Diane felt like she knew him, but from where she could not remember. Her eyes fell back to the book he was tenderly flipping through.

The worn pages looked as though they had been written long before her time, and the script looked to be copied by hand. The thick leather binding was frayed and there was not title on the front flap. The young man seemed to be engulfed in the information before him. Diane did not recognize the language on the book's pages.

"You know," She spoke after several long and awkward moments as she led him back to the front counter. "I don't think I've ever seen that book before." She saw the young man freeze up from the corner of her eye, before his shoulders fell despairingly. She decided to make nothing of it. His emerald eyes suddenly took on a defeated look, the book making a soft thump as he placed it on the counter. For a moment, Diane became captivated by the worn leather object. Despite having no memories whatsoever, she felt oddly connected to the threshold of knowledge before the young man.

"Is everything all right?" His gruff voice interrupted her wandering thoughts. Shaking her head, she quickly typed something into the computer. Excusing herself briefly, Diane reappeared moments later with Elias. Diane saw Elias physically tense up when he laid eyes on both the young man and the book, but again chose to make nothing of it. She would ask him about it later.

"What's the problem, Diane?" Elias leaned on his elbow against the counter, watching as she typed through various organization files on the computer. His eyes quickly scanned the screen, before disappearing into the back room mumbling about something.

"It seems that the book is not even registered in the system." She paused; shuffling noises came from the back room. Camden was obviously searching for something. "Listen, why don't you just take it?" His eyebrows disappeared underneath his curly hair in surprise. For all she knew, she could be giving away a book worth several thousands of dollars. "It's okay…I think. I don't think Elias has even seen a book that old in his whole life and you look like you really need it for research or something."

His gruff 'thank you' was something to be desired, but she smiled kindly nonetheless. He quickly stuffed the heavy book into a worn satchel, careful not to crush an ancient looking diary. She offered him a quiet place to study in the café at the back of the shop, but he declined saying most of his research was back at his apartment before slipping back onto the busy street.

"I have seen books that old in my life, you know." Camden's heavy accent floated from the back room. Diane squeaked and whirled around expecting to see an angry Camden standing behind her. However, she found him leaning in the doorway, a cigarette hanging from his lips despite the fact he had a clear 'no smoking' policy in the building. An odd expression hung behind dark eyes. "But whatever, he seemed like he really knew something about what that book was about."

—O_—_

Jethro left the small café and bookstore as quickly as possible. He hadn't expected to find her this early in his journey, and working at a bookstore run by Elias Camden no less. To be honest, he was not even sure if he would be able to pick her out. What if she had changed? Looked different from his Marie? Initially he had not put much thought into the details; but he had found her easily, and despite being a common color her blue-gray eyes held no equal. The fact that she seemed to have lost her memory unnerved him. He was not aware that memory loss was possible with this "gift" of theirs. Finding a way to awaken her memories, however, would require the powers of a higher council.

Pulling his jacket closer, he disappeared down a nearby alley that opened up several streets over. The heavy book that he had managed to "steal" from Camden was a hand written manuscript belonging to Abbot Isaac McLaughlin of northern Scotland.

More fragments of his memory had awakened in the time he had spent reading the diary. Jethro Barrett from 1915 had been a world renowned concert pianist. His favorite food had been scones, and despite the fact that he had been as skinny as a twig, he delighted in eating whatever was placed in front of him with no regard to the amount. He remembered having a dog named Pilot, and that his niece Allison had been entrusted to his care while his brother, who had been mentioned as David, was away on a military campaign. Unfortunately, he could not remember what type of dog Pilot was or whatever happened to his dear Allison.

He shook his head violently as he wove through the crowed sidewalks. It seemed the further he tried to push into his memories looking for the key, the thicker the fog became; he was swarmed with painful migraines. He had to find the key to their memories, before something inevitably dangerous erupted across the planet.


End file.
